


what the moon saw

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22078939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: Freedom never mattered to an Avenger. Hate was their fate and prison. Monte Cristo submitted himself to the mythologie the moment of his inception. Andersen – no, Caster was correct. Creatures like them were collared by humanity. He will never escape Chateau d’If, not when men demanded him to be the shadows of its jagged halls, to cling to the torment of what used to be Edmond Dantes, starving and alone in his cell. This was the lot of a monster. This was how things were supposed to be.Why, then, was he permitted to keep his memories of the blue sea?---Set in an alternate timeline of Pseuo-Singularity Shinjuku. Made aware of Baal's intentions, Dantes willingly infiltrates 1999 Shinjuku to prevent Ritsuka's arrival. He experiences the end of the world countless times and, with each disastrous end, begins to understand the game board and its players. What he doesn't expect is the arrival of a new piece: Andersen.
Relationships: Hans Christian Andersen | Caster/Edmond Dantès | Avenger
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	what the moon saw

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! it's another andersen/dantes fic from urs truly. it goes without saying that this fic has spoilers for shinjuku, so tread carefully if u haven't played it yet. there'll also be discussion abt dysmorphia & ptsd in later chapters, just as a head's up! ✌️ other than that, enjoy y'all

The sea was an abyssal black in Dantes’s dreams. That was an anomaly in of itself. Servants were mere copies of an immortal soul, shades denied the luxurious fantasies of sleep and instead condemned to wander through the painful reflections of memory.

In the days of his youth, Dantes feasted on waters of all colors: the translucent blues of the tropics; the icy, white-speckled greys of the north; the nostalgic cerulean of his home port, Marseille. Yet no matter the time or place, the sea churned with a wicked darkness surpassing even the mildewed halls of Chateau d’If, the lapping tongue of some foul god hungering for the colors beyond the tide’s reach.

He noticed this bizarre phenomenon while reliving his wedding day. He’d been watching a younger version of himself hurry about with the sun in his eyes and hope’s lightness in his steps. While trailing the youth, Dantes immediately knew there was something wrong. Clear as the skies were, the Mediterranean shuddered as if it were a massive, quivering shadow, each wave’s crest a gesture beckoning Dantes closer.

Dantes obeyed.

He stood upon the boundary between golden land and black sea, feet firmly planted where the waters couldn’t touch him. It was a beautiful day for the ignorant, and a bitter one for the dreamer. A passing sea breeze kissed his face with the fragrant promise of spring. He dismissed it. All his focus was on the impossible sight before him. He watched the waves ebb and flow, and remained silent and still save for the rippling of his cloak.

Why he crossed the boundary, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t because of a desire to understand, nor was it because of harmless curiosity. All he knew was the longer he stared at the twisted waters, the hotter the burning venom in his stomach grew, until it spread hot and fast to his chest and throat. The rage that howled boiled his brain and propelled his feet. Dantes plunged in with the blind fury of a provoked animal.

Higher and higher rose the water. It claimed his knees, his waist, his neck. He dove into the sea, and the sea swallowed him whole.

The moment his head breached the surface, Hell rushed up to meet him. A freezing current smashed into his gut with the force of a cannonball. His breath burst into a stream of bubbles and darkness, thick and cold, gushed down his throat.

How long he drowned, Dantes couldn’t know. He was little more than a corpse sinking into the endless trenches, nothing but a humanoid slab of meat whose lungs swelled with black maggots.

After an eternity, Dantes breached the dream with a rasping gasp.

He was drenched in sweat. So were his clothes and sheets. He sat up with his face in his hands, breathing hard and fast as the murky between-time of early morning crawled by. He dredged up faces of long-dead foes from the depths of his memory, recited ancient slights until the anger coursing through his veins burned through fear, signaling the return of the Count’s iron control.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Desperate, he fumbled through his nightstand for his pack of Sobranies. The lighter’s flame trembled. By the third hastily lit cigarette, the nicotine kicked in and the tremors ceased, leaving Dantes hunched over in a dark, smoke-filled room.

* * *

Without sleep, day and night blurred for Monte Cristo. Time meant little to a ghost, and meant nothing in the hell that was Shinjuku. All of humanity's sins ravaged the city without discrimination, devouring the weak and strong alike. It was a truly filthy place. Was it any surprise he'd be summoned here? And was it not his duty to watch these evils unfold before him?

So Monte Cristo watched. He watched from rooftops on high, where his cigarette smoke was sliced into ribbons by unforgiving gales. He watched from the alleys, cloaked in silence and shadow. And, when he arrived too late, he'd remain by the victim's side to feel the warmth drain from their wounds, to offer a silent prayer as he watched over them.

It's likely he's the only fool in Shinjuku who goes through the trouble of burying the bodies.

How long he’d been in this city was moot. It was and will always remain 1999. The new year will never come, no matter how many months passed. Yet he knew there was a definite end to this nightmare, for this poisonous, damned world was intended for Ritsuka Fujimaru. Her arrival would herald destruction. Thus, Monte Cristo anticipated her inevitable coming. Meticulously prepared for it.

What he didn’t expect was another Servant.

Monte Cristo almost overlooked him in the chaotic battle. The coloratura were like cockroaches – where there was one, there was bound to be a hoard scuttling about. All his focus was devoted to spreading hellfire; to feel what used to be flesh and bone crack beneath his clawed fingers; to smash and rend until the puppets’ wails snapped with their piano wire gears.

It was only after he tore off the last coloratura’s arm that he noticed Andersen.

The Caster was a streak of blue on the bloodied battlefield of scorched asphalt and broken chassis. He lay prone, without any sign of life. Monte Cristo half-expected the man to dissipate into golden motes at any second.

Monte Cristo tossed the arm aside with a clatter and approached. No matter how he looked at it, Andersen was a waste of time and resources. What use could a demon have for a Servant near his end? The costs outweighed the benefits. He was already playing a dangerous game by staking out his territory.

He knelt beside Andersen and pressed two gloved fingers over the carotid artery. There was a pulse, weak and faint as it was. A hint of life that could still be stoked to its full flame. Monte Cristo narrowed his eyes. His nostrils flared in irritation.

Kindness was a fatal weakness in Hell. He must remember this.

* * *

Avenger arrived on the scene alone.

He left carrying another.

* * *

In a city like Shinjuku, money bought everything. For a man whose riches flowed like blood, his influence rivaled God’s. Monte Cristo collected penthouses and luxury apartments as one would fine wine, always careful to conduct business under the appropriate alias. They were trophies displayed for the sake of sowing jealousy in his enemies, not places to live in, much less recover in.

Monte Cristo bounded across the buzzing, neon-crowned rooftops with the grace of a falling star. The night air crackled with the promise of winter, dashed with a tinge of gasoline. Andersen weighed close to nothing in his arms, his breathing so shallow it could hardly be heard over the rushing wind. More than once, he glanced down to assure himself he carried not a memory, but a person.

The neighborhood Monte Cristo landed in was lit by a solitary, unbroken lamp. The houses here were once billed as single family, their two stories perfect for children’s rooms, with each home granted its own charming brick wall. Looters overran the area long ago, leaving broken glass and scrawling graffiti in their wake. He entered the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, whose windows he boarded up with plywood when he first moved in.

First, the wounds must be attended to. The guest bedroom was choked with dust, but a few heavy slaps made the mattress clean enough to lay Andersen upon.

Destruction was an Avenger’s strong suit, not healing. Still, a life squandered on revenge had taught him how to patch his body together for the sole sake of clawing into another day. A bottle of disinfectant, a needle, some thread. It’ll be messy and ugly, but it’s better than the alternative. Small as Andersen was, he was a Heroic Spirit. He could bear the discomfort.

Monte Cristo was prepared for torn flesh and caked blood when he undid Andersen’s vest and shirt. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

Surrounding the gashes were patches of dead skin the color of desolate deserts, a red that’d never heal and forever ache. Not a speck of skin on Andersen’s arms were spared. The burn scars almost took on the appearance of rough-hewn sleeves of meat, were it not for the characteristic shine of keloid. What could have caused this?

The far-off howl of a wolf snapped Monte Cristo out of his thoughts. Immediately, he jumped to the window to peer between the boards. Nothing, save for the remains of a desolated street. Nevertheless, off went the lights. He’ll conduct his shoddy operation under the safe, obliviating veil of darkness.

* * *

Peace was but a veneer in Shinjuku, the quiet moments always a promise for another storm, never for a summer’s day. Monte Cristo smoked through half his pack while he kept watch, the nicotine little more than a pinch to a system that’s developed immunity to every poison under the heavens. Dawn would break in an hour’s time. The night he wasted would have to be made up in some way. He ashed his cigarette in its tray and got up to check on his patient.

Andersen was awake. His color was still that of a dead man’s, but his gaze was clear and sharp. He sat up the moment Monte Cristo stepped into the room. “I thought I smelled tobacco. You smoke enough to give a dragon a coughing fit, count. You alone would be enough to choke out the pits of hell. Now, where’s my shirt?”

What a familiar deluge of words. His recovery must be going well. Monte Cristo touched the brim of his hat. “It was ruined. You ought to be grateful that they only shredded your clothes, and not your organs. Few survive an ambush by the coloratura.”

“It wasn’t an ambush. I provoked them.” Monte Cristo raised his eyebrows in surprise. Andersen had to have noticed, but he didn’t elaborate. “In any case, this place is a miserable, freezing sty. I refuse to walk around half-naked. I’ll catch a cold!”

“Heroic Spirits don’t catch colds.”

“If you don’t have any clothes for me, I’m going to roll up in the blankets like an obese caterpillar. I won’t twitch so much as a pinky.”

This was stupid. Monte Cristo couldn’t think up an elegant way to otherwise describe this situation. The thought must’ve shown on his face, because Andersen snapped, “What? If you’ve got something to say, spit it out! Don’t just stand there, looking as if you’ve hid a frog in your mouth.”

“Mind your tongue, Andersen. I am well within my rights to abandon you to your sorry fate.”

“You won’t. You are Chaldea’s Avenger, are you not? Even if you weren’t, I’d still be correct. You rage against injustice. To inflict that rage on an innocent would run counter to your very nature.”

Monte Cristo burst out laughing. “You? An innocent? When you are a walking testament to sloth and pride? You think yourself a lamb when you are the wolf? Ha! Do not make such a joke again, _petit diable_ , I’ll surely break my ribs in my mirth! No, no. You are not pardoned from my judgment.”

“Then hurry up and sentence me instead of blathering on, you gussied up windbag.” There was not a shadow of fear on Andersen’s face. Weak as the Caster was, he looked Monte Cristo in the eye as he mouthed off, spitting words like gunfire. “If I have to hear one more biblical allusion, I’ll throw myself out the window. Good grief, for a self-proclaimed demon you talk about the scripture more than an Evangelist!”

“If I speak the word of the Lord, it is because I am the Lord. Since you are so adamant in your complaints, remain here, swaddled like the infant you are. We shall speak once you’re sensible.”

Monte Cristo turned away. Whatever Andersen wanted to retaliate with didn’t matter. There was work to be done.

“Dantes.”

That name. A shock to the system, jolting open every adrenal gland. He whipped around with a snarl on his lips, a roar rumbling in his throat, when he saw the hope in Andersen’s eyes. Blue and bright, as the ocean was on a clear summer’s day, so unusual for the cynical writer who drowned himself in misery.

Andersen continued. “You found no one else with me?”

Fools didn’t live long in Shinjuku. In the months he’s spent here, Monte Cristo has seen his fair share of them. Those who succumbed to appetites of the flesh and died in poisonous caresses. Those who only saw the glimmer of gold and not the hook pierced through it. But it was always the softhearted who died first, the ones seeking an ember of good in a soul of darkness. Andersen’s tongue pricked like a knife. His heart, however, was a different matter. _I provoked them_ , the writer said.

A great fool, indeed. Monte Cristo’s anger quieted.

“No. No one living or dead.”

“Good.” A flash of relief, quickly buried with a roll of the eyes. “I’m a burden enough on you already. I can’t imagine you juggling brats on top of a case like me.”

“Do not put words in my mouth, Andersen. You are a contemptuous creature, but you are far from a burden.”

Andersen stilled. He looked on the cusp of saying something with how he parsed his mouth and Monte Cristo felt a surge of petty pride in shutting him up. “You’ve cornered me with etiquette,” Andersen said at last. “How am I supposed to rebuke you without looking like an asshole? Well, not that I’m ever _not_ an asshole. You better work me to the bone so I can properly repay you, do you hear me?”

“A man who threatens another by promising labor.” Monte Cristo tipped down his hat to better hide his smile. “I wonder, are all writers such contradictory beings?”

“Look no further than me, for I am the king of hypocrites, King of the Cavern.”

“Then, from one king to another, I shall see if I can’t attend to the matter of your clothing. Until then, _roi de_ _tartuffes_ , I beseech you to take full advantage of the humble accommodations I’ve provided you.”

“Tartuffe!” Monte Cristo heard Andersen exclaim as he left. “That’s the funniest miscast I’ve ever heard! Tartuffe, he calls me, when he’s the one parading around as God…!”

How odd it was to feel so pleased by such abuse.

* * *

Monte Cristo was a man of his word. Andersen’s small size limited his selections. Nevertheless, he returned to the quiet house with a spare change of clothes in a plain, brown bag.

There remained much to do. Contacts to meet, traps to lay. Each second that ticked by weighed heavy on his restless mind, slow and unbearably constant like drops of water. Monte Cristo slouched into one of the kitchen’s hard chairs, his hand already drawing out his pack of cigarettes.

He would wait until Andersen’s mana was replenished before leaving him. In the meantime, he’ll interrogate him – inquire into what he’d been doing before the attack, how he was summoned, what he’d seen. Though this was an unexpected inconvenience, there was still some value to be squeezed from it. Reassured by this plan, Monte Cristo lit a new cigarette, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

“Well, well, who knew the count was a natural homemaker? This must be the coziest house in hell.”

Hot smoke gushed out on Monte Cristo’s sigh. He cracked open an eye to see Andersen regarding his surroundings with a frown. The author had opted to wrap a bath towel around himself, thus covering his arms.

Cozy wasn’t how he’d describe his base of operations. It was only natural for him to maintain a clean environment, regardless of how frequently he used it. Years on the sea made tidiness an instinct and, with his speed as a Servant, putting a house in order barely took an effort. Cozy, Andersen said. There was no warmth to be found in the manner he arranged never-used plates, no sincerity in the sparse, modern décor. For some reason, the assessment disappointed him.

“I detest sloppiness,” Monte Cristo said. He gestured at the table. “There are clothes in the bag. Consider them yours.”

Andersen set upon the bag like a bird of prey. Disappointment creased the writer’s features as he held up a shirt.

“Seriously, Dantes?”

“Have I not told you countless times—”

“‘Ay up me duck?’ What the hell, do you think I’m a drooling toddler?” Andersen turned the offending shirt around. A cartoonish caricature of a duck winked at Monte Cristo. “I can’t wear this.”

“Traditional venues no longer exist in Shinjuku. Until your mana recovers, you’ll make do.” A smirk twisted Monte Cristo’s lips. “What, is a duck not thematically appropriate for Hans Christian Andersen?”

“The ugly duckling was never a duck to begin with! That was the whole point! You chose this to spite me, didn’t you? Fess up!”

“Oh? Is it not to your liking? Then I suppose you’ll have to strut about like the foolish emperor in your stories. You may rule the domain of fiction, but I rule the boundary dividing reality and unreality. This singularity is my hunting grounds, Andersen. I shall treat you how I like.”

“You’re bullshitting. Your control over this singularity is the same as mine: zilch! We’re the peasants in your tired metaphor, toiling under a vile lord.”

Monte Cristo leaned forward on the table, cigarette delicately balanced between his fingers, the smoke a wispy, wavering veil dividing him and Andersen. He knew he was an imposing presence. Skin paler than a drained corpse, golden eyes with the glint of a killer’s blade. He pitched his voice low, close to a monster’s growl. “Do you know something about this realm, Caster?”

The charisma of the count often worked like gravity, all-encompassing and powerful. Many wouldn’t be able to meet his eyes, much less look at his face. Andersen stood his ground and looked directly through the smoke.

“As much as you do, I suspect. Hold on, I’m chilled to the bone. Turn on the heater, why don’t you?”

Despite himself, exasperation colored his response. “You are far too greedy as a guest.”

“And you are far too poor a host. Where is _monsieur le comte’s_ infamous hospitality, hmm?”

The bath towel was tossed aside. Under the hue of the fluorescent lights, Andersen’s scarred arms became uglier. Looked sicklier, like patches of infected skin. Running down his smooth chest was the neat line of stitches done by Monte Cristo. All of this was quickly hidden as Andersen pulled on the shirt.

“If you’re so curious,” Andersen said, expression unreadable, “I’d rather you ask me than gawk.”

Monte Cristo took a drag of his cigarette. “The burns on your arms…”

“They’re a sight for sore eyes, weren’t they? There’s a reason why I’m careful with my attire. To inflict my hideous affliction on my coworkers would be crude, even for a boor like me. Nobody wants to see barbequed flesh when they’re trying to eat.”

Andersen spoke flippantly, as if he were mocking a poor poem and not himself. Perhaps, in his eyes, his worth was that little. Monte Cristo realized he couldn’t recall the last time Andersen said something kind about himself.

“A disease, then?”

“A curse.” Bitterness crept into Andersen’s words. “The result of my readers’ love for my stories. When it comes to fairy tales, the author is a necessary evil. I wrote suffering and misery into my stories in accordance to the ugliness I witnessed. I stole the little mermaid’s tail and exchanged it for a pair of bloody feet. I burnt the match girl’s hands in her desperation to stay warm. It’s only natural for my readers to wish the same pain upon me. The monster must suffer. You of all people would understand such sentiments, Dantes.”

A memory surfaced, of a lavishly decorated restaurant lit by flickering candlelight, of a man beckoning Monte Cristo to sit. _Edmond Dantes. Nice name. It’d look great in print, you know? Although, ‘Le Comte de Monte-Cristo’ would make a better title for a novel._

His jaw clenched. No. He won’t dwell on that man.

“While I better understand the nature of your deformities, I must confess I cannot grasp the reasoning behind your youth.”

Andersen barked a laugh. “Who knows? You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve no say over this body. That dubious honor belongs to the masses. ‘Fairy tales are for children. This man is his story. The cruelty he puts his characters through reflects an innocent monster’s immature nature.’ It’s thanks to them that the Andersen standing before you is a mere miserable pastiche. Men have the freedom to define themselves, count. Ghosts such as ourselves don't.”

The salty taste of brine rose with the memory of the ink-black ocean and flooded both his mind and mouth. Monte Cristo inhaled sharply through his nose. The hot scent of tobacco did little to alleviate the chill breaking over him. He could find no other warmth in this accursed room, with its hollow cabinets and meaningless ornamentation, and he closed his eyes to take refuge in the darkness.

Freedom never mattered to an Avenger. Hate was their fate and prison. Monte Cristo submitted himself to the mythologie the moment of his inception. Andersen – _Caster_ was correct. Creatures like them were collared by humanity. He will never escape Chateau d’If, not when men demanded him to be the shadows of its jagged halls, to cling to the torment of what used to be Edmond Dantes, starving and alone in his cell. This was the lot of a monster. This was how things were supposed to be.

Why, then, was he permitted to keep his memories of the blue sea?

 _It makes for a good story_ , whispered the author in his mind. Something in Monte Cristo’s chest burned. He abruptly stood up.

“The limitations of our existence are not uncommon among Servants,” he said, low and monotone. “Our chat ends here, Caster. I’ve pressing matters to attend to.”

Monte Cristo didn’t stay for Andersen’s response. His appetite for words was soured. The night beckoned to him and he gladly obeyed, melting away into a formless shadow as he slipped out the door, sacrificing flesh and heart.

Yes, he could trust this darkness. Neither the moon’s muted light nor the echo of waves breaking on the shore could touch him like this. He roiled on the broken concrete, restless, before he shot off like a pouncing tiger, towards the bleak lights of Shinjuku’s heart.

* * *

In the early years of his imprisonment, Dantes prayed. When it became clear no earthly power would acquiesce to help, he turned his eyes heavenward and begged for the divine to save him. Was he not a child of God? Did he not live in accordance to the sacraments? If he had unwittingly committed a grave sin, he was willing to do anything for absolution.

So he prayed until the knees on his rags wore out, until his tongue dried out and his jaw seized, until the words he recited became meaningless noise masking his desperate plea.

God never answered. Monte Cristo would not make the same mistake twice.

If he was to writhe in the fires of Hell even long after his death, he would embrace his role as Lucifer. No mercy was granted to him. Thus, no mercy would be granted to his prey.

Shinjuku station echoed with the stamp of boots and the rattle of gunfire nowadays, the once abundant wails of its trains a distant memory. The labyrinthine subway tunnels were infested with rats. Such pitiful creatures who cowered from the heavens stood no chance against a beast wielding hellfire.

Monte Cristo caught them at the intersection of the Kawagoe and Saikyo lines, loading crates into a car-turned-drug den. He struck with thunder’s fury. In one swift motion, he tore out a guard’s tendon with his bare fingers, flesh giving sundered from bone with a wet crunch. No light was necessary to see the fear on their faces. He could smell it well enough by their sweat, could hear how their teeth chattered as their comrade screamed. _Good_ , breathed the mythologie, and lit Monte Cristo on fire.

How long he raged, he doesn’t know. By the time Monte Cristo emerged from the tunnels, dawn was beginning to seep into the night, lightening hues of black and blue into warm golds. Blood and ash coated his clothes, thick and heavy. He reeked of burnt hair.

An abandoned building served as acceptable refuge. From the rooftop, he could oversee his surroundings while retaining the cover of his shadows. As he sat on the ledge, he found to his surprise that he was breathing hard.

“Holy shit. Did you massacre the whole station or something?”

Monte Cristo turned his head slightly to look back at the balding man. He knew his contact had been tailing him since he left the station. Nevertheless, he didn’t have the patience to entertain a conversation with him. His golden gaze narrowed.

“I’m in no mood for your business. Begone.”

“C’mon, don’t be that way.” The man gave a nervous smile. “We got along real well yesterday, didn’t we?”

“… we did not speak yesterday.”

“You serious? We went out for drinks and everything. Did I leave that bad an impression—eep!”

With a flourish of his cape, Monte Cristo towered over the thug. “When did this happen?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“Man, I’m really sorry—”

“I didn’t ask for your pathetic bellyaching. I asked _when_.”

“7:30 last night. W-We met at the gardens.”

This was an unexpected wrench in the works. Could it be the doing of the singularity’s master? Has his plan been found out? Monte Cristo snarled and turned on his heel. Truly, no rest could be found in this rotten city.

“Leave me.”

“Um…”

“Leave!”

His contact ran. Good riddance.

If an imposter was running amok, he must be swiftly put to an end. The web Monte Cristo wove was complex and delicate. Another spider would not do. Information must be immediately gathered; a backup plan must be drafted for the worst-case scenario. Yet Avenger remained rooted in place.

He looked down at his hand. Blood had long since clotted into dark smears and caked the skin. The callouses on his palms could still be made out beneath the mess. They were proof that, once upon a time, this body belonged to a sailor called Edmond Dantes, who looked to each sunrise with a naïve joy over the coming day.

Monte Cristo lifted his head. All he felt at the sight of the distant horizon was a hollowness that burned.


End file.
